The Snows of Winterhold
by eyeofjanus
Summary: For all his life, Henri Étielle has been treated like a second class citizen in the city of Whiterun. However, when the opportunity arises to study magic at the College of Winterhold, his life (and the rest of Skyrim) will change forever. Set fifteen years before the events of Skyrim. Some liberties taken with different characters and OCs will be added.


Note: I've taken liberties with some of the characters (yes, it's that Lydia and that Belethor, and yes, I know there's no connection between them). More to follow :)

* * *

Belethor knew life wasn't fair. The lesson wasn't a hard one to learn; living in Whiterun as a Breton was about as fair as Hermaeus Mora's backside. After all, his father was the hardest working man in the city, yet the Nords still treated him lower than a mudcrab. Even that was a light example of the coldness of the world; he'd heard of hunters dying on the trip before their retirements, soldiers wounded from the Jarl's wars kicked out of their homes because they couldn't pay their taxes, or even couples killed on their way to their weddings in Riften. So yes, he was more than well aware of the injustice of life.

Still, as he stood in front of the biers that held the bodies that used to be his parents, the one word that rang dully in his head was "unfair."

_Unfair_. His father had survived two wars and a famine, only to fall to the plague.

_Unfair_. His mother loved everything about life, and here she was, rotting away in front of him.

_Unfair_. He was ten days away from turning 18.

_Unfair unfair unfair unfair unfair unfair un—_

"You all right, son?"

Belethor started and tore his eyes away from his parents. "As much as I can be," he told the priest that was shuffling inside. "At least I'm still alive."

Andurs chuckled. "You'll appreciate that even more the older you get," he said, cracking his back. "Where are the young ones?"

The young man nodded over to the children sitting on a bench in the next room. "I didn't think they'd want to spend so much time near the bodies. They're not used to seeing death that close."

"Not many children are." The old man peered at him. "Are you feeling all right, lad? You look awful."

_My parents are dead, you idiot._ "I'm tired," he said apologetically. "We're not usually up this late."

"I can sympathize." Belethor raised an eyebrow. The old man cleared his throat. "It's a bit late for me as well," he said carefully. "Most funerals aren't at midnight."

"It's Breton tradition." How many times had his father used that excuse to defend his actions? And how many times had his mother teased him about it?

"Quite right, quite right." Andurs glanced back at the children. "Perhaps we could getnow? I'm about to get started…"

Belethor nodded and crossed the room. "Hey, you two," he said softly, nudging them. "It's time."

It had to be his imagination, yet as his siblings slowly rose to their feet, Belethor couldn't help but think that both of them seemed years older. Even little Lydia walked a little slower than he was used to seeing. Wrapping an arm around each of them, he walked them over to the biers where Andurs waited with his arms raised.

"Great God Arkay, Lord of the Dead," he thundered, "tonight we send unto you two lost souls, …" He looked expectantly at Belethor.

_Unfair unfair unfair _He swallowed. "Pierre and Morenne Étielle," he said, struggling to keep himself from stammering. Lydia buried her face into his side; he pressed her closer and gave Henri a squeeze.

"Guide your children to your holy being, oh Lord Arkay. Bring them together once more in the Void and send them fast on their way to Sovenga—er, well…" There was a pregnant pause as the priest frantically tried to recall the Breton version of the Nordic paradise.

"Sovengarde's fine," Belethor said wearily. _Maman will like Sovengarde. Papa'll be angry—but then, he's always angry. _

Andurs nodded. "To Sovengarde. Lord Arkay, we say this in your most blessed name. May you be praised forever more."

The priest bowed his head; several minutes passed. Belethor began to vaguely wonder if there was something he was supposed to do. However, before he could ask, the priest took a deep breath and looked back up at him.

"It's over," he said simply. "Their souls are at rest."

Belethor smiled weakly. "Thank you. I know this must have been inconvenient for you."

Andurs shrugged. "What's the use of a priest of the dead who can't keep up with the living? I'm just glad you're not Argonian." He chuckled. "Did you know they've got to lay out for three weeks before burial? I figure it works out fine down in Black Marsh, but up here they sit out three days and the stench makes you wish you were dead instead!" The priest's tone made it more than clear that Belethor was supposed to laugh here; he, however, didn't feel particularly obliging.

The priest sighed. "Come here, son," he said, hobbling over to a door in the back. "Grab an ale with me."

"Er…thank you, sir, but really, I should—"

"Oh, shut up, lad, and sit down." He pushed the door open and gestured to the fireplace. "Have the young ones lay in front of the fire and take some time off."

Belethor hesitated. The sooner he got his brother and sister home, the better; still, the idea of sitting back for a bit was too tempting to refuse. "T-thank you," he said reluctantly, gently ushering his siblings into the room. It was sparse: bed pressed against the wall, table in the corner, kettle over the flame. Yawning, Henri and Lydia curled up on the floor as the two men settled down at the table.

Andurs shook his head. "Poor things…how old are they?"

"Henri's 14 and Lydia's 11." Belethor took a swig of the proffered ale and quickly set it back down; either its age or his grief had spoiled its taste.

"Full young to be losing parents," the old man said, tossing back a huge swig of his bottle. Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he leaned back in his chair and sighed. "Then again, these days, it's almost usual to lose someone at their age. Back during the Great War, the bodies piled up here faster than we could bury them—the Jarl had to commission a second wing to the catacombs just to get by." He shook his head. "So many young ones, left on their own…" He gave Belethor a sharp look. "Have you thought about what you're going to do with them?"

Belethor nodded wearily. "My father's shop still does pretty well, and I know how to run it—I'll be able to take over from him. As for those two, I figure they'll just help me out."

The priest was silent for a moment. "Normally I wouldn't suggest this, given that most Nords treat magic users like the walking incarnations of Mehrunes Dagon himself…but Bretons are quite the opposite, aren't they?"

The young man frowned. "What are you getting at?"

Andurs swirled his mug. "Have you considered sending your brother to the College of Winterhold?"

Belethor felt a sudden pang in his side. "I'm sorry?"

"I know it's not what you want to hear, but you've got to hear it anyways." Andurs took another drink. "Every year the College opens its door to any child over ten who wishes to study magic." Belethor suddenly had a vision of a much younger Henri standing atop the store counter pretending to shoot lightening from his fingertips. "The College provides the best education you can find in Skyrim, both magical and natural. Five years, 500 septims, opportunity of a lifetime. Boy comes out of that, he's got the whole world in front of him. All the court mages come from the College."

Belethor didn't say anything, shocked into silence.

"Now, your sister's still a bit too young for the college's taste, even though she's over the age requirement—besides, from the look of her, it doesn't seem like she's quite the magical type. Your brother, on the other hand…" He gave Henri an appraising look. "I'd be willing to bet that he's already demonstrated an interest in magic, hasn't he?"

_Bel, did you know that there are mages that can turn iron into gold? Can you believe that?! What if I could just turn all our plates into solid gold? _

"I don't know," Belethor said gruffly. "And please, let's stop talking about this. My parents died four days ago; the last thing I'm about to do is send my brother halfway across Skyrim."

"He has to leave sometime," the priest replied. "And 14's not too far from being a man."

"You just told me it was full young to lose a parent!"

Andurs shrugged. "The two aren't mutually exclusive."

Belethor sighed and slumped back in his chair. "Forgive me, I'm tired. I'll…think about what you said."

"That's a lad." Andurs winked and poured him some more ale. "Now drink up! You've earned it."

Belethor smiled weakly and choked down his drink, secretly praying he'd survive his time off.

* * *

As the two men at the table clinked their glasses, Henri Étielle stared into the depths of the fire, trying to make sense of what he had just overheard. Beside him, Lydia murmured something about goats in her sleep and rolled away, blissfully unaware of the turmoil that was now raging in her older brother's head.

Henri knew he should still be grieving for his parents. He still was, of course; the memory of his father's gentle, steady laugh made him sick to his stomach, and he flinched as if scalded from even circumspectly thinking of his mother. That being said, the disease that had taken both of them had been a long, slow one, and by the time everyone knew it was over, they both had a month left to say their goodbyes. Not an ideal death, but better than most got. Thus, Henri's wounds, while still fresh, had healed enough to allow him to concentrate on the massive news he had just stumbled upon.

_Winterhold_. He didn't know much about it. A lot of people seemed to think that it would cause the ruin of Tamriel—then again, Nords seemed to believe a lot of things that weren't necessarily true. Just last week Ysolda had been convinced that a stray alley cat was in fact a daedric prince in disguise, despite Henri's pointing out that most daedric princes had darker goals than licking themselves and sitting on walls. So maybe the college wasn't nearly as dangerous as some made it out to be. Still, the allure surrounding it was enough to make his heart flutter.

_Can you imagine me doing magic?_ He had heard many tales of enchanters during his childhood, great men and women who could breathe underwater, spout fire from their fingers, and heal wounds with the blink of an eye. The idea that that sort of power could be at his disposal was something he could scarcely comprehend. He'd be stronger than anyone he'd ever met—their snooty Nord customers would go out of their way to flatter him. He had a dazzling vision of himself living in a floating mansion with a crowd of squawking, enchanted Nords crashing into each in a chaotic cloud around it.

_I have to go. I don't care if I have to beg from now until Evening Star, I have to get into the college. _

It was then that he felt the gentle nudge in his back. "Come on," Belethor murmured. "It's time to go."

Henri climbed to his feet, pretending to look like he'd just woken up. "What time is it?" he yawned.

"Late." His brother stooped down to wake up Lydia; she made what sounded like a growl and swiped at his face. Belethor responded by putting an arm around her waist and tossing her over his shoulder.

"You can't do this," she mumbled as they began to walk towards the door. "This is kidnapping. Someone get the guards!"

"Somehow I think I'll be all right," Belethor retorted. He paused at the exit and looked back at the priest. "Andurs, thank you, again. This meant a lot."

"You don't want to say a final goodbye?" the old man asked in surprise.

Belethor shook his head. "We've had enough of that." Henri knew what he meant; the idea of looking at the withered remains of what had been his parents was a task none of them were up to. "We'll be heading back."

"As you wish." Andurs bowed his head. "You think about what I said, boy!"

The young man nodded wearily and directed his siblings into the night.

"Wha'd 'e 'ak 'oo 'bot?"

Henri and Belethor frowned. "What was that, pipsqueak?" Belethor asked.

Lydia lifted her head from where it had been buried in her brother's upper back. "What'd he talk to you about?" she asked the back of his head.

"Nothing." Henri noticed a certain tension in his brother's voice.

The girl sighed. "That's boring." With that, she slumped back over his shoulder.

Silence enveloped the siblings as they began to make their long way back to their home. Whiterun, so vibrant during the day, was absolutely dead at night. Henri suddenly felt that it was time to take his chance.

"I know what he talked to you about, Bel," he said quietly.

For a moment, his brother didn't say anything. Then, he let out a deep sigh and said, "And what did you think?"

Henri fought to compose himself. "Bel, I really, really want to go."

Another deep sigh. "Riton, do you know what you'd be getting yourself into?" his brother asked in Breton. "Winterhold's worlds away. You'd be totally surrounded by strange people and strange faces."

"Papa did it, though," Henri retorted. "He was two years younger than I was when he left High Rock for Skyrim!"

Belethor mulled this over. "I don't think it was easy for him, though. He never did get to see his family again." He shot a look at his younger brother. "I know you heard Andurs. You wouldn't see Lydia or me for five years if you went."

It was Henri's turn to be silent. Five years was a long time, to be sure. Lydia'd be 16 by the time he got back. He would miss a lot, to be sure…

But a lot of what? Five years of sitting behind a counter, watching people talk down to him and his siblings? Five years of staying in at night reading? What were five years of life in Whiterun compared to five years of learning magic?

He cleared his throat. "I still want to go."

"Really?" Belethor asked softly. "Right after Maman and Papa leave us, you want to leave too?"

"Yes." The word was out of Henri's mouth before he knew he was going to say it. Both brothers flinched from the harshness of the word.

"It's not that I don't want to be around you," Henri said quickly as they turned onto their street. "It's just…I just want to get away from here. We've lived death for months now…I don't want that anymore."

There was a long, pregnant pause as they approached their home. "Can't you wait until next year?" his brother whispered, staring down at him mournfully.

Henri squared his shoulders. "I could be waiting for 'next year' all my life," he said stubbornly. "If I'm going to do it, I'm going to do it now."

Henri was used to his brother's pauses, but as Belethor stood in silence yet again and stared down at him, he couldn't help but feel an incredible impatience towards him. "Well?" he asked finally.

"All right."

Henri blinked. "What?"

"I said all right." Belethor shifted Lydia and smiled sadly at his brother. "We'll have to hash out the details…but I can't refuse you a chance like this. As far as I'm concerned, you can go to Winterhold."

Henri stared at him for a pause equal in length to Belethor's, then broke into a huge grin. "Thank you!" he squealed, throwing his arms around him. "Thank you thank you thank you!"

"Whatever you two are doing, I am not a fan," Lydia growled, suddenly awake. "What in the name of Talos' knickers is going on?"

"Nothing, twerp," Belethor said, putting her back on the ground. "Go inside and get ready for bed. Also, don't say Talos' knickers."

"I'll say what I wanna say," she grumbled, pushing the door open. "I don't see you telling Riton what to do…"

"I'm going to bed, too, Lyd…" Before going inside, Henri turned around and gave his older brother another beaming smile. "This is going to be incredible!"

Belethor smiled back at his brother; however, as he followed him into the house, he couldn't help but recognize that he had just agreed to losing yet another of the most important people in his life.


End file.
